A Funny Thing
by SigMoonKat
Summary: Take three slightly twisted fanfic writers, add one awesome story plot, and blend for about one week. This is what you get. Disclaimer: We know NOTHING!


"A Funny Thing" is a collaboration, a labor of basic insanity that took place over about a week recently. Chapters flew thick and fast...between three authors writing one story in an impromptu Round Robin...and we decided that it would be a shame to leave it in a format that was difficult to read, or did not make sense. And so, here it is...different than posted because all chapters are now in chronological order, along with original summaries, and author's notes. Enjoy!

 **A Funny Thing Happened**

By: Signy1

The main thing to remember is that, in the end, the mission was a success. There's really no need to go over all the little details of who did what, whether or not the instructions were clear, who said they would handle that one crucial step, or why, precisely, someone ended up half-naked. Is there? No, I didn't think so. Let's hope Hogan doesn't, either. Drabble.

 **Well That Escalated Quickly**

By: MoonyEstelChase

We might have gone a bit crazy with this one. This is Glib (My addition for the ever-expanding Funny Thing Happened-verse) posted as its own story. It's still in my Butterfly collection, but I'm gonna post it as its own, also.

 **Mission Accomplished-Sort Of**

By: Katbybee

One day an author name Signy1 came up with an awesome bit called "A Funny Thing Happened." Next, MoonyEstelChase took up the mantle with "Well That Escalated Quickly!" Just what exactly happened, anyway? The lunacy rolls on...and on...and...where it stops? Here. Possibly. Probably. R/R Usual disclaimers. Hugs!

 **Chapter 1-Signy 1**

LeBeau had his sweater tied around his waist like an apron. Newkirk's too; basic decency demanded it. He was carrying as much of their walkie-talkies as they'd been able to salvage.

Newkirk, limping and scorched, was carrying Carter.

The mission had been successful. Technically. Explaining that to the Colonel might present some minor difficulties.

"This will probably be funny in, say, fifty years," Carter said, eventually.

"Fifty years, eh?" Newkirk snorted. "Fine. In fifty years, laugh all you like. But not until then, all right?"

"1993," LeBeau mused. "Bien. In 1993 I will tease you about it."

He did, too.

A/N: This mission must have been a doozy. Newkirk wants it made very clear that it _wasn't his fault._ LeBeau wants someone to bring him another pair of trousers. Carter's a bit lightheaded yet; he just keeps making 'Kaboom' sound effects and snickering to himself. Kinch is feeling grateful that he was safely back at camp manning the radio, and Hogan wants an aspirin, a stiff drink, and then another stiff drink after that one.

 **Chapter 2-Signy 1**

Carter, slung over Newkirk's bare shoulder in a fireman's carry, still possessed trousers. Hogan was grateful. "Is the bridge still there? First thing's first.

" _Non, mon Colonel."_

Well, that was something. Carter's mumbled "kabooooom," was abruptly silenced when Newkirk slapped the most convenient spot.

"Good," Hogan said, ignoring the byplay. "What the hell happened out there? Do I even what to know?"

The corporals traded a long look. "I couldn't really say, Colonel," LeBeau said, smoothing his makeshift kilt guiltily.

"I see," Hogan said. "And if I ordered you?"

"Rather be bloody shot," Newkirk rasped. " _Again_."

Hogan let it go.

A/N: I have no intention of ever explaining precisely what happened. Because nothing I could possibly write would be nearly as funny, embarrassing, obscene, improbable, or, frankly, interesting as the utter pandemonium you're all imagining for yourselves, and as long as I don't go into details, each and every version of the story is correct. (Yes. Even THAT one. You know the one I'm talking about.) I'm beyond flattered that so many of you enjoyed this to the point of wanting to continue the story, and I hope you're all having as much fun as I am.

…and Newkirk wants to reiterate the fact that it really, really _wasn't_ his fault.

 **Chapter 3-MoonyEstelChase**

A/N: I think this has gotten out of hand. I'm posting Glib as its own story so you guys can find it easier…

"I swear, sir. There is an explanation."

Hogan stared in shock. "I…I don't think I want one. Not until…Dammit! I can't think! Someone get LeBeau some pants!" he shouted.

Kinch was repeatedly rubbing his eyes to ensure they still operated. Olsen had fainted from laughter-induced oxygen deprivation before LeBeau had the chance to furiously sock him. Newkirk was looking everywhere but at another person. In fact, the only person seemingly unaffected was Carter. Well, he was affected, but not by the situation.

"Wow, I've never noticed how dirty this table was before now."

 **Chapter 4-katbybee**

A/N: Thank you to Signy1 for allowing me to drop my tuppence on the table on this one…and to MoonyEstelChase for her awesome contribution as well. And the lunacy rolls on…

~HH~

Newkirk deposited Carter at the table, which he promptly began dusting uselessly, and complaining it was dirty. He then began grinning foolishly and making exploding noises and motions with his hands. Next, he mimed pinning a flower to his lapel and babbled something about meeting Mary Jane after the dance.

Hogan growled in frustration and turned his attention to the others. Taffy handed LeBeau a pair of his own trousers. They were RAF blue, but LeBeau was in absolutely no mood to be picky. Foster knelt next to Olsen, poking him soundly in the ribs to bring him around after he had passed out laughing.

Newkirk sat down next to Carter, and vainly attempted to brush the scorch marks and soot off his trousers. He was going to have a quite a repair job fixing the tear in the right trouser knee. He was freezing due to the fact his white undershirt had been torn up and pressed into service as makeshift bandages…on of which was around his knee. His right boot was missing altogether. His garrison cap was the only thing that had come through unscathed. It was perched atop his head jauntily, as if taunting them.

LeBeau spread Newkirk's red handkerchief on the table with the remains of the two walkie-talkies they had managed to salvage. The third one had passed on to walkie-talkie heaven. Kinch looked pained as he sifted through the pieces. He muttered darkly in a mixture of English, French and Russian. When the others looked at him he glanced up. "What? Sam taught me!" *

Carter looked up. "How'd a Russian guy get a name like Sam anyway? Shouldn't it be Vladi-Vlid-Vidi—"

Automatically, everyone in the room replied, "Shut up, Carter!"

Hogan frowned. His curiosity finally got the better of him. "What _happened_?"

LeBeau took a deep breath. "Well. The bridge is no more. But the mission…" he shrugged and trailed off, looking over at Carter who was back to giggling and staging his own fireworks show with his hands. He then looked at Newkirk, who sighed, and finally spoke.

"Look, guv. We set the charges. Everythin' was fine. We waited till they went off, like always." He stopped speaking and stared at his hands.

Hogan got impatient. "And?"

Andrew piped up. "How were we supposed to know somebody hid a still under the bridge?"

"What?"

Carter grinned. "Yep! Doubled the size of the explosion. That's how Newkirk got kinda cooked. He was last in line." He went back to playing with his hands as if that explained everything. _It didn't._

"Go on."

Carter looked up. "Hmmm? Oh, well, then he got shot."

"What?"

"Leave off, ya git! No, I got shot _at_. Barely grazed me knee. Doubt it'll even need stitchin'. Though I can't say the same for me trousers."

"Who shot at you?"

"Owner of the still, I expect."

"Do you think he saw any of you clearly?"

"Only LeBeau. An' I don't think he'll be anxious to be tellin' his mates about that."

"Oh?"

LeBeau shot his English friend a furious glare, and growled, " _tais-tois, Pierre!"_ *

Carter erupted into near-hysterics, and Kinch grinned.

Hogan rubbed the bridge of his nose. Kinch looked at Hogan. "This must be the part where Louis lost his pants…"

The little Frenchman practically vibrated with indignation. They waited out another string of French invectives. Newkirk's grin grew even wider the whole time.

"Now, now, Louis. That part _was_ your fault. You know you're supposed to go before we leave home!" He turned back to Hogan. "Bloke was hidden in the grass next to the bridge, prob'ly waitin' to check on his still an…" he broke off with a snort, his green eyes dancing madly.

The others had gathered around during the telling of the tale, and Taffy piped up, "The man took exception to LeBeau's choice of…"

Newkirk nodded and grinned. "Yep! Yanked his trousers right off 'im. Dumped 'im in the dirt. Took the ruddy things with 'im!" By the time we got ourselves sorted out, he was gone…or we thought he was. He shot at me after we blew the bridge."

Hogan said carefully, "and you didn't see the still?"

"Not then. We saw it when we watched parts of it flyin' through the air." He paused. "We figured it out for sure when Carter got clocked in the head with a bottle. That's why he's so loopy."

Hogan resumed pacing. He ticked off his points on his fingers as he spoke. "So, let me get this straight. Louis, you were in civvies. The other man was there because of his still. He never got a clear look at the rest of you. So, after Louis ummm…yeah, after the guy left, you fellas blew the bridge. He probably thought Louis blew his still out of revenge." He paused. "Not that far-fetched."

He shrugged, looked around at his men and grinned. "Mission accomplished, gentlemen. Good job!"

They watched in amazement as he strode into his office and shut the door.

On the other side of the door, Robert Hogan walked straight to his footlocker and pulled out his bottle of 12-year-old Scotch. He poured a stiff shot, and downed it. He started to replace the bottle, considered, and poured another.

 _Someday,_ he thought _. Someday, this will all be funny._

A/N: Okay, who's next? Anyone want to take a crack at the 1993 bar scene? You are more than welcome to borrow Peter Newkirk's pub, The Cap and Crown for the occasion, if you don't own one yourself.

*Sam was the Russian tailor who appeared only in the pilot episode, "The Informer."

 **Chapter 5-MoonyEstelChase**

 _Right after Hogan leaves to get some "liquid courage"…_

Olsen came to, unfortunately. And that meant the three men were subjected to some questionable questions.

"You guys have fun?" Olsen said suggestively, waggling his eyebrows.

Carter was still out of it, but Newkirk and LeBeau weren't. And they fully understood what Olsen was implying.

"Would you like to feel my hand stuck up your nose?" LeBeau sweetly asked.

Newkirk added, "I'd be glad to 'elp." He made a few movements to show how it could be done. Olsen paled sickly green.

"Uh, I'm sorry, I'm sure your mission was very successful," he apologized.

LeBeau grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "It would be if I could hit you."

A/N: This one's 125 words. More than a drabble, but I thought the extra 25 words were worth it 😊

Btw, Olsen isn't trying to be purposefully offensive or cruel. He just has a…dirtier sense of humor than most. And it was not the best time to joke right then. Especially about LeBeau. He's already feeling sensitive about the subject.

Newkirk says that Olsen is a git, and all similar rumors are false.

 **Chapter 6-MoonyEstelChase**

 _During the Great Still Explosion of the Century…_

"Bloody 'ell, Louie. Not again!" Newkirk grumbled. The Frenchman had crumpled once again from the sight of Newkirk's gunshot wound. Newkirk sighed and scrubbed his face with the had not holding Carter on his back.

His hand felt something wet; he knew he wasn't crying, so what was…he quickly tasted the moisture to test his hypothesis. The liquid tasted like distilled lightning. And knowing the source, it just might be. The shock made him physically step back.

"Wooh! That bloody moonshiner sure did know what 'e was doin'"

 **Chapter 6-Signy1**

 **~Sometime in 1944~**

In diner slang, 'to eighty-six' something meant 'get rid of it.' Scott had spent several summers as a soda jerk and suspected that the slang was peculiar to the states, so when he heard his British rescuer snapping, "Ninety-three!" at his companions, he understandably, assumed that it was an error.

"I think you mean 'Eighty-six,'" he said.

"'Ardly. I need those extra seven years."

Scott's look of incomprehension moved Hogan to take pity. "Inside joke," he explained. "Around here, 'ninety-three' means 'knock it off; this isn't the time to discuss it.'"

"Er…why?"

Hogan snorted. "They still won't tell me."

A/N: Diner slang is a delight. Insane, but a delight. The verb 'to 86' does mean 'get rid of' and seems to date at least to the '30s. Etymology is obscure, and there a great many theories as to where it came from, ranging from the bizarre to the _very_ bizarre, but it's become an accepted phrase, surviving long after most diner lingo has gone the way of the dodo, alas. So far as I am aware, no one ever used the phrase '93' too mean anything at all, and I rather think the Heroes preferred it that way.

Slowly but surely, we're making out way to 1993.

 **Chapter 7-MoonyEstelChase**

 _First Day of School, 1953_

"Daaaaaaddy! I don't wanna go. I don't know anyone, and it's scary."

Kinch smiled at his daughter. "Sweetheart, you brothers are going. Did they say it was scary?"

"Nooo?"

He laughed. "Honey, you'll be fine. You'll make lots of new friends. Besides, nothing will be as scary as what I saw one day while I was in the war."

Her interest was piqued. "What, Daddy?"

"I saw…Uncle Louis with no pants on!"

Gasp. "Daddy!"

Kinch heard his wife calling from the kitchen. "Hon, no stories about LeBeau, 'kay?"

A/N: I know this is out of order, but, hey. It's Halloween and I can do what I want.

 **Chapter 8-Signy 1**

 _Sometime in 1963…_

"I've always wondered, Newkirk. About that still…"

"…You're thirty years early."

"RHIP," said Hogan. "Humor me. When the booze when flying, did you drink any of it?"

Newkirk recoiled. "Sir! I'd been flash-fried and shot. I was 'alf-naked, and I had Carter over one shoulder. Louie'd already swooned twice, and I knew if 'e got a third look at me leg, I'd be carrying 'im over me _other_ shoulder. I bloody well _wanted_ a drink, but I was on duty. So no, Colonel. I didn't."

"Besides," LeBeau added. "All the bottles were smashed."

Newkirk scowled in remembered frustration. "That, too."

A/N: Okay, this is taking on a life of its own! This snippet is actually a response to katbybee's wonderful expansion of the story-'Mission Accomplished—Sort Of,' and MoonyEstelChase's equally wonderful 'Glib.'

RHIP stands for 'Rank Hath Its Privileges.' And speaking of rank, Hogan is almost certainly a general by this point…but he'll always be 'the Colonel' to his men.

Perhaps someday I'll actually manage to write a one-shot that *stays* a one-shot. Between this Jack's Beanstalk of a story and "Traduttore, Traditore,' which was also supposed to be a single scene, apparently, I don't know how to do short.

 **Chapter 9-katbybee**

 _17 Sep 65—London_

Peter stepped out of his 1946 Bedford stake-bed lorry. There was a crowd out on the sidewalk, and he was pleased. He and his crew had worked hard renovating the old pub. During his years with British Intelligence he had dreamed of owning his own place, but the job kept him traveling constantly. Now he was semi-retired, and finally realizing his dream. It had taken a while to find the right place, and even longer to renovate and stock it. But it was all worth it, because at last, they were ready. A giant red bow was tied across the front doors, just waiting for the guests of honor. A tarp covered the hand-painted sign above the entrance.

A taxi pulled up and Carter, LeBeau, Kinch and Col. Hogan piled out, briefly reminding Peter of a batch of circus clowns. He grinned and raised a hand in greeting. "Just in time, mates!"

There were brief hugs and back-slapping all around, but the exchange of news and swapping of lies would have to wait. The crowd parted as Peter escorted the four men, his best mates in the world to the front doors. He introduced his staff to them and they shook hands all around. He stepped back and pulled down the tarp. Everyone applauded appreciatively…but the four men standing next to Peter were stunned. For the sign showed a vintage bomber pilot's crush cap tilted jauntily atop a royal crown. In the background proudly waved the Union Jack. And the legend read: "The Cap & Crown."

Tris, his bartender grinned. "So, Boss, you gonna make a speech?"

. "Nope…think I'll wait till 1993 for that."

And with that, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his old pencil sharpener and handed it to Hogan. "If you would be so kind, guv?"

A/N: We're getting there. Btw, cookies to anyone who recognizes the date of this reunion.

 **Chapter 10** **-Signy 1**

 _Paris General Hospital, Sometime in 1972_

LeBeau knew one thing for certain; this couldn't possibly be heaven. "Pierre?" he mumbled. "You are here?"

"Where else would I be, you daft bugger?"

"Moscow, _n'est-ce-pas?_ " Even groggy and feverish, he remembered _that_ much.

"I _was_. "'Eard you were a bit poorly, so I'm in Paris." Newkirk shrugged. "The Cold War can wait a few days."

"You came here? From Moscow? For this?"

"Naturally, Louie," Newkirk said gruffly. "You and me, we've got to make it to 1993, don't we? Who'll take the mickey if you don't?"

Reassured, LeBeau smiled and went back to sleep. Yes. At least 1993.

A/N: I don't want to know how many favors he had to call in to make this happen. I really don't. And yes, LeBeau is going to be just fine; he'll be complaining about the hospital food before you know it.

 **Chapter 11-katbybee**

1975

Andrew Carter was in heaven. Well…not **THE** Heaven. Not yet anyway. That would have to wait until at least 1994. But for now, he was as close as he could get. He chuckled, remembering something Colonel-er-General Hogan had once said about him, when Kinch had wondered what he would do after the war. "Fireworks, down on the farm, every Saturday night." Well…he had done a bit more than that.

He had finally landed his dream job. He was now Lead Imagineer for Pyrotechnics at Disneyland. He would be designing shows and in charge of setting off thousands and thousands of fireworks every evening, every night of the year. And best of all…he would be creating the happiest diversions on Earth.

A/N: Come on, could you _really_ see him doing anything else? Closer!

 **Chapter 12-katbybee**

1976

Carter's crew looked at each other in confusion. A charge had gone off prematurely and knocked their boss out. Nobody was quite sure how it had happened, but they were all relieved that he was already coming around by the time the medics showed up.

They checked him over, and determined he didn't have a concussion. When asked what happened, their chief looked the medic directly in the eye and uttered one word. "93."

A/N: And the legend lives on….

 **Chapter 13** **-Signy 1**

Christmas, 1981

The siren song of presents had easily overcome the effects of a truly obscene amount of food; all four grandchildren were bouncing off the walls.

"For you, Grand-père," Luc, (Pierre's eldest,) chirped, handing him a package from under the tree.

Louis looked at the tag and chuckled. It was from Carter, so he already knew what it would be. As usual, it would contain two sweaters—one blue, one red—and a note saying, "Just in case."

He couldn't complain about the decades early teasing; his usual gift to Carter was a bottle of brandy. And a box of gauze bandages.

A/N: There wasn't much question as to what Louis was going to name his first son, was there? As for the gift, I don't think he's ever felt the need to explain Carter's annual leg-pull to the rest of his family. Perhaps they just assume that Carter doesn't have a great deal of imagination in this regard.

 **Chapter 14-katbybee**

 _1 Jan 1988_

Tris was surprised when he walked into work at the Cap & Crown. His boss was up on a ladder behind the bar hanging a new sign. Usually, whenever he needed that sort of thing done, he waited until Tris, or one of the others got in.

Tris cocked his head in confusion as he read the sign after the guv had climbed down. It read "5."

"What's that about?"

He smiled and shook his head. Tris passed it off as just another of the guv's oddities.

Later that evening, after business had picked up, Newkirk grinned when General Hogan walked in and spied the sign. Hogan laughed. "Happy New Year, Peter! Next year, it'll read "4."

~HH~

A/N: One step closer…

 **Chapter 15-MoonyEstelChase**

 _London England—November 22, 1990_

Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher has announced her resignation today after John Major…"

The radio buzzed with static as a gnarled but steady hand turned the dial. Aged bones reclined in the violently red armchair that his children had begged him not to buy. "It's a funny old world. Well, Maggie, I guess you couldn't wait. I see 'ow you'd want to go. You've been PM for a while. I want to go too, but I promised I'd wait 3 more years."

A/N: At this point, Newkirk's pretty old and probably doesn't have as good a grasp on politics as he once did. Margaret Thatcher [known as the Iron Lady ("This lady's not for turning!")] was the first female Prime Minister (PM), and she served for 11 years, the longest term ever for a PM. Thatcher resigned because she couldn't get enough votes to be nominated by her party again. A man named John Major was her successor.

One of her quotes is "It's a funny old world."

 **Chapter 16** **-Signy 1**

 _1993—at long last…_

The waitresses weren't sure how a few old men could take up the entire pub, but they were managing. And they were so unashamedly happy that, somehow, the staff didn't even mind.

For a moment, the clock rolled back, and they were young again. Shoulders squared under the weight of adventure, eyes glittered with triumphant glee. They were _together._ The barbed wire was gone.

Life was good.

"To 1993," Hogan toasted. "To all the crazy schemes we should never have been able to pull off."

"And did anyway," Newkirk chimed in.

"Hear, hear," they chorused. No drink ever tasted sweeter.

A/N: To reiterate what I've been saying from the beginning, this is only one way it might have gone. There are other possibilities, other futures, other pasts, other denouements. I've written several others…many of which were not in the least comedic…and might share them sometime, but this is the one I wanted to post first. This is the way we all want it to have happened, isn't it?

 **Chapter 17** **-Signy 1**

 _Long after 1993…_

His doctor had decided opinions on what he should and shouldn't eat—short version, if he liked it, he couldn't have it—and everything hurt. He was fed up with the sterile white bed and the sterile white ceiling and the sterile white monotony of the hospital. He was tired and sick and lonely. He was tired of being sick, and sick of being lonely.

It had been good. Oh, it had been _better_ than good. But it was time and he wasn't sorry. He closed his eyes, dozed off.

There was a voice—strident, amused, Cockney. "Blimey, it took you long enough. What, are you going to me _carry_ your scrawny arse in?"

"It would do you no harm to perform honest work for a change," LeBeau shot back.

"Maybe not. But at this stage of the game, why risk it." He grinned. "Carter _did_ make me carry 'im. For old times' sake, 'e said."

"It could have been worse. It might have been Kinch." It didn't seem as though he'd be needing his body anymore, so he left it where he was. "Or Shultzie!"

"Blimey, I'd've needed a derrick," Newkirk said with a shudder. "Nah, Kinch didn't ask for a piggyback ride, thank goodness."

LeBeau laughed. "I won't either, then. What about le Colonel?"

"Don't ask. But, you know…I would've done it." He smiled. "Only fair. 'E carried _me_ long enough. So did you for that matter."

LeBeau slung an arm around his shoulder. "We all carried one another."

"Truer words," Newkirk agreed. "C'mon, then. They're waiting for us."

And as they walked away, chattering nineteen to the dozen—and arguing, just a little bit, because, well… _because!_ —it got brighter and brighter as they approached the door. And brighter still as they passed through it.

A/N: So much for the drabble format. This is 300 words even, and trying to hack it down to size was an exercise in futility. And the original ending—which involved a sort of heavenly induction center, with Saint Peter (no, not him. The real one, and shut up Newkirk, nobody asked you,) issuing Louis a harp, a halo, and two sweaters was a bit too silly to include, but made me smile enough that I thought you all might get a bit of a kick out of it.

 **Chapter 18-katbybee**

 _Beyond 1993…_

LeBeau was perplexed. The room sort of looked like Barracks 2, only bigger, cleaner and _warmer_ and it smelled wonderful. Everything was…comfortable. Every bunk had a thick mattress, blankets, and a pillow.

And all of them were young again. Even Klink and Schultz were younger, fitter versions of themselves. How extraordinary! As he settled in with the others, he basked in the feeling of being home. Of Peace.

Suddenly, a sweet but slightly shrill voice cut through the room. "There you are! We have been looking everywhere for you! We have waited _such_ a long time!" A group of beings appeared around the speaker, and stood waiting silently. The woman then deferred to her friend Brigitte, who smiled and nodded warmly at Louis as she came to stand behind him. Brigitte placed her hand on Louis' shoulder affectionately.

Wordlessly then, the group dispersed to stand behind each of the team members. Except for the one who had addressed them. She still stood in front of the group. She was lovely, with eyes like crystal pools and hair that was the most stunning shade of silver any of them had ever seen.

The woman smiled gently at them. "My name is Sylvia. Don't be concerned. We have known you literally all your lives. We were your guardian angels, and because you had such a bond in life, we wanted to wait to introduce ourselves until you were all together." Sylvia's eyes swept to the far side of the table, to the face of her Assignment. And what an assignment he had been!

It didn't take a genius to put two and two together, and there were scattered chuckles as realization hit that the only grey-haired angel in the group was Sylvia. And the only team-member with no one standing behind him, was Andrew J. Carter.

Newkirk laughed so hard he fell out of his seat, startling his angel. "Don't do that! I'm not on duty anymore!"

That bit of information piqued his interest, until Kinch kicked him under the table and hissed, "An angel, Peter, _really_?"

Newkirk frowned and whispered back, forgetting the perfect acoustics of the room. "Can it mate, I'm not dead y'know."

Kinch's eyebrows shot to the ceiling, and an awkward silence ensued as Peter sat frozen, his eyes slightly crossed.

LeBeau stared at him in awe. "Leave it to you, _Pierre_. That was the most stellar _faux-pas_ in the history of the universe!"

It took a bit for the laughter to die down after that.

Hogan cleared his throat. He was curious, but also desperate to smooth things over a bit. "So, if you aren't looking after us anymore, were you re-assigned to other people?"

Sylvia smiled. "Most of us, yes. A few of us hung up our combat boots." She directed her gaze at Andrew. "I am enjoying a nice, peaceful, _quiet_ retirement."

She finally went and stood behind the man who had been such a challenge to her…and whom she had grown to care about very much. She put her hand on his shoulder.

Again, she addressed the group. "We came to say hello—and goodbye. It was an honor and a privilege to have served with all of you."

Hogan nodded his thanks. He spoke to the Guardians, though his eyes were on Andrew, who blushed. "Believe me, we couldn't have done it without you."

Sylvia chuckled, and as suddenly as they had appeared, the angels were gone.

There was a slightly melancholy look on Andrew's face. Newkirk noticed immediately. "What's wrong, mate?"

"Well, I was just wondering…I always heard each person's Heaven was wherever they were happiest."

Peter shrugged. "I s'pose that makes sense. I don't imagine we're just gonna be sittin' on our duffs forever."

Carter's grin lit up the room. "Gee, that's a relief! I was afraid I'd never get to set off another explosion again!"

And everyone in the room heard an unseen but now familiar voice sigh, "So much for peace and quiet!"

~The End~

A/N: Sylvia makes her first appearance in my story "Carter's Angel."


End file.
